Cleanup Duty and Other Beneficial Things
by ZeDancingHobbit
Summary: "New York is full of beneficial activities," Fury replied evenly. "I don't want to see you here at all tomorrow, soldier. And that's an order." He turned on his heel and whisked out of the room, leaving Steve to his devices. Steve muttered darkly under his breath. What was an outdated soldier to do in a modernized world?
1. Prologue: And That is an Order

**Hey guys! So, this was originally a one-shot entitled "What's in a Name". But, it got so many follows and favorites and such that I decided to make it into a series of oneshots centered around Cap. There will be cameos of other Avengers to, don't worry, my pretties. Some will be short, some long. **

**Enjoy! **

Wham wham wham.

Thunk.

Crash.

With a sigh, Steve Rogers bent down to pick up the slightly-dilapidated and sand-spilling punching bag from the floor. He tossed it onto a pile of about 5 such bags, then turned and placed another on the hook. He adjusted the wrappings on his hands, breathed in deep, and punched again.

Wham wham wham.

"Perhaps those hands would be put to better use elsewhere," a deep voice sounded from the doorway.

Steve paused in his beatings. "That's funny," he huffed, "it's almost like déjà-vu." He commenced slamming his massive fists into the bag.

Nick Fury stepped further into the room, black trench coat fanning out behind him. He crossed his arms behind his back, studying the super soldier/Captain/Avenger.

"Why are you here?" he asked suddenly, causing Steve to stop again.

Sweat dripped off the captain's nose as he pondered how to answer this inquiry. "I…I dunno," he finally answered. "I just…I dunno what else to do, I suppose."

"Why not go outside?" Fury suggested.

Steve scoffed. "I don't think so, sir. The outside and I don't really get along too well at the moment."

"How do you know?"

Steve glanced at Fury. "Well, I don't know, sir, maybe it's the fact that the last time I've gone outside in 70 _years_ I was attacked by aliens in the middle of New York." He spread his arms wide in a gesture of helplessness.

"You never know, Soldier. Something special could come your way," Fury answered.

"Where am I going to go? Stark's house?" Steve asked sarcastically, swinging the punching bag back and forth slightly. "I think you know as well as I do that that would not work out well."

"There are other things to do besides go to an obnoxious superhero's home," Fury replied evenly. "New York is full of beneficial activities." He turned on his heel and whisked out of the room, leaving Steve to his devices. "I don't want to see you here at all tomorrow, soldier," he called over his soldier. "And that's an order."

Steve grimaced. He balled up his fists and, with a yell of anger, slammed into the bag. It crashed off its chain and whammed onto the floor, spilling almost half of its sand. Steve muttered darkly under his breath and grabbed a nearby broom, sweeping the spilled contents into a pile with the other 3 bags that suffered the same fate.

What was an outdated soldier to do in a modernized world?

**And thus is our prologue. What, indeed? *eyebrow wiggle* **

**This is ZeDancingHobbit, formerly dancinqueen18, over and out. **


	2. Chapter 2: Cleanup Duty

Clean-up duty.

It was somewhat fun, he supposed. Maybe not fun, per se. More like relaxing. A way to get your mind off the hectic doings of war and battle, the stress, the panicked people. It was a way of slowing down, letting your mind be at rest as you helped pick up the pieces.

He'd done it before. He'd helped during the first war he was in, after the shootings and forts had been ruined. He'd helped build the burned buildings again, piece by exploded piece. He'd helped shell-shocked soldiers, injured men, and panicking nurses.

Steve Rogers, AKA Captain America, liked it, in a way.

Perhaps it was just what he needed. Maybe that was the push that was necessary to get back out into the real world. To find a place again. If it was something he'd done before, maybe it would help him get back into the real world again. Something familiar. Something he knew.

It was a start, at least.

And so, the abnormally large and extremely buff superhero/earth's defender/Avenger decided to venture out into the ruins of downtown Manhattan and do some clean-up duty.

Why not, indeed?

That was how Steve Rogers ended up in a pair of jeans and a brown tee-shirt, head uncovered, by the corner of 7th and Weldon Street.

He didn't know this place. He wasn't aware of where he was. Heck, the only reason he had any idea of his location was because of the GPS in his pocket (the street sign was gone). At the moment, the only thing on his mind was doing damage control. And when Captain America had something on his mind, you could bet your bullet-resistant shield he would finish it.

He was indispensible. His huge muscles bulged and flexed as he lifted large pieces of buildings, flipped over cars, and shoveled away rubble. He received quite a few glances and giggles from teenage girls, and a few even scribbled their number on a sticky-note and tucked it in his pocket. Where they had gotten a sticky-note from, well, who knew? And, frankly, who cared? All Steve cared about was helping.

The giant was a bit of an attraction. People would pause in their work to stare at the huge man, heroically lending a hand to the ruined, helpless people of good ol' NYC. They needed him. He was without match. He could lift the heaviest wreckage, grab people the fastest, and hold things the longest. Unrivaled. Unparalleled. Practically perfect. That is how Steve Rogers, previously plain Steve Rogers, was seen in the eyes of the New Yorkees.

Again, he didn't care. It was part of his job. It was his duty to assist and protect. If he could lift, carry, and dig, why shouldn't he? If he had the ability, why wouldn't he? And so, he worked without pause or break. Except, that is, when he heard his name being called.

He straightened up abruptly from his shovel. Surely it was a coincidence. He strained to hear the sound again, carried on the breeze. Was it…? Yes, there it was again. "_Steve_!" It sounded panicked, fearful. His ears instantly knew where the sound was coming from, and he abandoned his shovel. He took off down the street.

It was a feminine voice. Funny…the only girls he knew were Natasha and Agent Hill. He knew it wasn't Natasha. Could it perhaps be Hill?

The voice came again, louder, with more urgency. Steve pumped his legs faster. He jumped over a pile of glass and skidded around a corner, just in time to ram into a teenage girl.

She catapulted backward and slammed into a piece of building.

"Oof," she groaned. She picked herself up, not seeing Steve. "Ow," she moaned, holding her head.

"Are you okay? I'm so sorry, I didn't see you-" Steve apologized, stepping towards her.

"Ack!" the girl squawked. She whirled around and fumbled for something in her dirty jacket. She pulled a bottle of pepper spray out and aimed at the poor superhero. "Stay back!" she ordered.

"Kid, I'm not going to hurt you." What was _this_? She called for him and then she threatened him?

That was when he noticed the tears running down her cheeks. "Are you all right? Why are you crying?" He looked around. "Where are your parents? Are you hurt?"

The girl caught herself, fresh tears welling up. "It's my brother. He's-he's missing, and I can't find him, and he's probably lost, and my parents are gonna freak, and it's all gonna be my fault, and-" Before the girl could finish her sentence, she burst into tears, sliding down to the ground, back against the wall.

"Hey, kid." Steve strode over to her and kneeled, one knee up, in front of her. He took a hold of her shoulders. "Kid, listen up."

The girl looked at him, bangs plastered with sweat against her face.

"What's your name?"

"Becky," she sniffed.

"Becky, where did you last see your little brother?"

"Right here! I went to the other street to see if anyone we knew was around, and I told him to stay here. But when I came back, he was-he was..." Becky looked like she was about to start a fresh round of sobbing.

Steve sighed. "Becky, calm down. Okay? We'll find your brother. What's his name?"

"Steve."

"Okay, and last name?"

"Rogers."

If Steve had been drinking at the moment, he would have done a sublime spit-take.

"Steve Rogers?"

"Yeah." She seemed to notice his shocked expression. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. It's, uh…it's mine too."

"Your what?"

"My name."

"Really?" the girl laughed through her tears. She brushed away a piece of black hair. "Funny. Well, Mr. Rogers, let's go find him," she said, standing up and wiping her nose on her jacket sleeve.

Steve nodded and did the same (minus the nose-wiping). He navigated his way around a piece of rubble. "Steve!" he shouted, voice resonating.

"Steven, where are you?" Becky shouted. She brushed aside a pile of glass.

"Steven Rogers," Steve called, "if you are around I need you to answer me!"

A light cough sounded.

"Shh!" Steve commanded. He whipped a hand over Becky's mouth. "Steve?" he asked again.

"I'm *cough* in *cough* here!" a young, rough voice answered. It came from inside a pile of bricks and twisted metal.

"Stay back," Steve ordered the overjoyed sister. He strode towards the debris. "Are you in here?" he inquired, face near the bricks.

"Yeah. Can you please *cough* get me out of here?" The helpless boy sounded as if he was about to cry.

"I'm going to get you out of there, buddy. Just stay calm. Can you do that?"

"Uh-huh." The child was silent.

Steve surveyed the situation. If he moved a pole on the left, it would then be clear to move about half of the obstruction, but he would have to move quick. If he was too slow, the whole thing would come down on top of the little guy.

He breathed in a few times, readying himself. _Okay, Steve_, he thought. _On your mark, get set, _go_!_

He rushed forwards and slid the pole out. The bricks began sliding, and he used the metal shaft to slide the rest of the obstruction over, locating a small boy of about 7 years curled up into a ball. A bloody cut sat on his forehead, and he was covered in dust and grime.

Steve reached down and picked up the little boy. "Shh, it's all right, Steve," he told the hiccoughing boy, "I've got you. Calm down."

Little Steve buried his face into Cap's neck. He sobbed a few times, but eventually calmed down.

Big Steve handed the little boy to Becky, who shed a few tears into her younger brother's hair. "What did I tell you about wandering off?" she demanded.

"I didn't! I knocked up against a pole, and all this stuff came down." The little boy looked at Steve. "Thank you, mister." Upon closer examination, he inquired, "Wow, you're really big. Are you in the army?"

"Steven, hush. Not everyone's in the army." She looked at Steve apologetically. "He's obsessed with the army."

"No it's fine. As a matter of fact, I am. I'm a…" Steve chuckled. "Well, I'm a captain."

"Really?" Steve perked up. "Thanks, Captain."

"You're welcome, soldier." Steve tousled the boy's hair. "You'd better get his cut tended to. Where's your parents?"

"They should be back soon." Becky kissed Little Steve's head. "Thank you so much. You have no idea how grateful I am. I would never have been able to get him out of there. He might have…" she trailed off and hugged her brother tighter.

"Don't think about that," Steve told her. He touched her arm. "Just think. It's a good thing we've got the same name, huh? Otherwise I might've never come." He directed a smile at both kids, then saluted and turned around.

As he walked down the wreckage of Jolly Avenue, he smiled.

Maybe the outside world wouldn't be so bad, after all.


End file.
